


Mechanical and Thin

by TheLiminality



Series: High Violet [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Other, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, then again when do I write him stable, trigger warnings for anatomy, twisted fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:46:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1283152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLiminality/pseuds/TheLiminality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The difference between John and Sherlock; John is living. Sherlock isn't so sure he is alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mechanical and Thin

**Author's Note:**

> Hello~ it's been a while, if anyone checks my writing monthly. In my original novel, there was a bit that was edited/and has been changed. The idea of the chapter, however, stayed in my head, and I began writing to a The National (as I do for this series) and this is what came of it. 
> 
> Listen while you read: Looking For Astronauts, The National
> 
> Title from; The National: Lit Up

“I wish I could see your bones.” 

The words slip out of Sherlock’s mouth on their own accord. Staining a whisper with somewhat tainted, questionable words. John looks at him, a bit surprised, but not taken aback. This seemed normal for the pair of them. Time spent in bed was either spent with an ocean of sheets and distance between them, or on top of each other. Mapping out the way they enjoy each other with kisses to cheeks, or held hands. It never went further. It didn’t have to. 

Tonight, however, an over stimulated Sherlock turned John into an anatomy model. Bones. Of course. At the end, it always boils down to the matter that makes him. At least to Sherlock. 

John holds out his arms in front of his eyes, and twists them about in the light. Thinking about the idea himself. Sherlock almost asked them if it would be okay for me to peel their skin back.  
He didn’t.

The doctor remains in silence. Counting. He is almost astonished that so many bones are truly hidden beneath his skin and muscles. John’s lips move mutely over numbers and under numbers. He twisted his arms further to count more. It is one of the most intoxicating things Sherlock ever had the privilege witnessing. It shows, as he can't find it in myself to pull his eyes away.

“You did a good job. I don’t believe you have missed one.” John points to his wrist, dragging his own finger over it. Testing if the ink will smear with the body heat. Looking pleased when it doesn’t. 

Sherlock’s eyes dance from his Doctor to the clock in his bedroom, knowing by the position of the arrowed hands that John will be leaving soon. It is something the two of them worked out (mostly Sherlock). Four hours in the same bed, tops. After that, John was to leave. With the choice of returning or simply not asking for a day like this again. It cut out all the useless confusion… relationships like this usually bring. 

Sherlock does not try to keep him when he goes. Missing John is a gift when he goes. It makes Sherlock’s chest ache slightly. But, they come back. They always do. Whether it is the sitting room or The Detectives bed. As it goes, John never forgets about Sherlock.   
Sherlock never forgets about the equally damaged doctor. 

And John, well. He’d never stand for forgetting. He’d write poems between the left and right brains within Sherlock’s brain. That was if Sherlock could stand poetry.   
(He can’t).

The ink will stay with them both even when John does go. Sherlock wondered if he will shower and watch the ink roll down in beads black beads over rough skin. He wonders if seeing it go will hurt John, or if the sight is one they wont forget. Black pooling at his feet.  
As if old bones from an old life have finally be cleansed from him. The bones that faced a bullet in a war. Shed and forgotten like snakes skin. That new bones will form for now. With Sherlock. A growth spurt of sorts. One you have no control over but bask in it with closed, blissful eyes. The dull ache echoes in the very bones replacing the old, reminding you that you are alive. Doing something right. Moving with another.

And soon, Sherlock’s bones will go to. He won't miss those much. And if John leaves (which he might. Sherlock is not a man to be stuck in some lovesick delusion. Most people leave, he reminds himself silently.) He will, yet again, grow new bones.

“Lie back.” John says calmly. The pair of them connect eyes for a moment, Sherlock letting his back hit the mattress. Eventually, John manages to hover over (his) Sherlock. Though not intimidating, just a constant weight. Soft, warm. Constant. Constant.  
John begins unbuttoning his partners shirt, and Sherlock feels his heart kicked into racing blood throughout his body. This is like time for him. He is not ready. John can easily sense the unease from the man beneath him. He gives a shake of his head, soothing Sherlock as gently and quietly as he can. Once Sherlock’s chest is bare, John searches around the white duvet for the pen used on himself only moments earlier.

Looking Sherlock over before uncapping it and bringing it down. Right over the other mans heart.

Sherlock closes his eyes and tilts his head back. Not wanting to see. Wanting to feel. The ink is cold and unyielding on his skin, but glides easily enough. Making impossible shapes and swirls right over his heart. Sherlock’s heart.  
He figures it out quietly, and a small smile plays on his lips. Sherlock has a fascination with the bones of Doctor John Watson. John has a fascination with the muscle most connected, socially (not with science or progress) with love. That only of Sherlock Holmes. He feels John draw the valves. The texture. The veins. Sherlock feels the pen ink sink down into his skin with grace and ease. Marking him far longer than the ink will actually last. Like a brand that will never go away. He opens his eyes, but he refuses to look down. He look at the clock again instead.   
He counts.

Each stroke of the pen gets a second.   
Each detail, a minute give or take.  
It all feels perfect.   
It does not feel like love.  
It feels like breathing, time, and movement.  
And, as a gift, Sherlock gets drunk off of it all.

John finishes with a pleased sigh. Sherlock looks up at him. A smile warming his face.   
Sherlock lets his eyes wander down his own expanse of chest.   
Smile.  
A perfect medical diagram of a (human) heart. 

 

“It’s wonderful.” Sherlock finally speaks, and John smiles impossibly wider. Like a child who did well on a report card and feels completely deserving of the praise. Sherlock simply lets the ink dry before running a testing finger over it as John did with his bones. The Detective looks up again and smiles. This makes his heart feel real, after all. Half convinced his heart is clock work. Ticking along as long as it needs to without repairs. Heavy and brass and healthy metals deep within the cage of his chest.

John’s heart t is real. Fleshy, gray, red, wet, working. Moving life into him. Beneath his skin. Simply hiding from his eyes. 

The difference between John and Sherlock; John is living.  
Sherlock isn't so sure he is alive.  
Not even a medical diagram filled with logic and education could save him.


End file.
